


A Birthday To Remember

by PsychoticMeepit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Presents, Happy Birthday Kate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoticMeepit/pseuds/PsychoticMeepit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can understand the reasoning behind birthday celebrations. He can understand the theory of why they’re important; a collaboration of self-esteem and fear of death and the human greed for love, showcased in the form of presents. He could write a speech on how, even though he finds it all ridiculous, he can comprehend the theory perfectly well.<br/>But the truth is, Sherlock can’t. Not really. Because there was a difference between theory and practice.</p>
<p>In which John attempts to make Sherlock's birthday as amazing as possible, and Sherlock reconsiders his opinion.</p>
<p>(This is a birthday fic for the wonderful and amazing <a href="http://jackbarabitch.tumblr.com/">Kate</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Birthday To Remember

**Author's Note:**

> So this was put together in 3 days, amidst a hellish schedule of tutoring and revision. Therefore - please, please correct any mistakes you see with a comment! And, as always, concrit is adored.
> 
> This fic is a birthday present for one of my best friends, [ Kate ](http://jackbarabitch.tumblr.com/). She is wonderful and I love her a lot and yes. Happy Birthday, Kate!!!!
> 
> (Also - sorry about the lack of update for Falling Star (which is my first multi-chap fic and if you haven't read it you should hi and bye shameless self-plug sorry), as I said above, life has been hectic. I hope to be able to start writing it this weekend - I've planned the plot already!) 
> 
> With all of that said, enjoy!

Sherlock can understand the reasoning behind birthday celebrations. He can understand the theory of why they’re important; a collaboration of self-esteem and fear of death and the human greed for love, showcased in the form of presents. He could write a speech on how, even though he finds it all ridiculous, he can comprehend the theory perfectly well.

But the truth is, Sherlock can’t. Not really. Because there was a difference between theory and practice.

It wasn’t that it was from lack of experience. His parents had plied him with gifts and expressions of love without fail on his day of birth, not scolding him for blowing things up (even when it was Mycroft’s bed). And yet, instead of partaking in the celebration of the life form that was birthed 9 months after his parents had decided that they wanted another child, Sherlock preferred to lock himself in his room with whatever volatile ingredients his parents had dutifully bought him that year (just because he disagreed with birthdays didn’t mean he wouldn’t take advantage of free snake venom) and treat it like any other normal day.

His life was a constant, after all. It was a continued process, and choosing one specific day that held _sentimental_ value to celebrate it was pointless.

It was a belief that Sherlock had held fast to for almost twenty five years. But then John; honest, caring John, with his righteous fury that almost made Sherlock’s tongue stick to the roof of his mouth as if it were an icy metal pole, entered his home, and made a room for himself in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock could almost imagine him now – a look of disbelief on his face for all of ten seconds, before he asked ‘why’ (and never maliciously, never with the intent to prove him wrong in order to fuel his pride, but a simple curiosity that invited Sherlock to bless John with an insight into what made him a genius). He could imagine the contours of John’s face smoothing out, and then looking puzzled (his default expression, really), before warping into something that resembled worry (creased forehead, slightly unfocused eyes, a mouth that dipped downwards ever so slightly). Sherlock would insist upon the advantages of his point: stating statistics, the lack of needing a drunken party that would surely only end in a visit from the police as a teenager, how staying in his room and experimenting with his first eyeball at age ten was far more enlightening than his parents’ offer of throwing him a party at Snakes & Ladders.

And he expected a lecture, truthfully. A lifetime of people trying to make him act normal had caused his mind to forever predict being told that that was not ‘normal’; that believing that wasn’t okay.

What he didn’t expect was for John to very quietly, and very firmly look him in the eye, and ask him if he’d ever had birthday cake.

“Of course,” he would scoff, “Mrs Hudson tries to force some on me every year, and before that Mycroft insisted we had some so he could stuff his fat face.”

“And what about… being sung Happy Birthday to?” was John’s reply, and Sherlock couldn’t help rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Not since I was five, John, honestly. In the time it takes to sing that wretched song, I could have easily blown the record player up and created music that was….much more interesting.” (Sherlock ended this with a smirk, and the image of a six year old boy with curly hair doing such a thing had John in peals of laughter. He had to fetch himself some water from the kitchen – at which point Sherlock _did_ earn a lecture about keeping decomposed toes in the sink – in order to calm down)

“Tastes change over time, Sherlock.” John grinned, “You should give it another shot.” And with that, in the style of a certain consulting detective, John swept off dramatically to his own bedroom. The effect was slightly dimmed by John’s jumper; it had _kittens_ on it, after all, but Sherlock would have given him at least a six out of ten for style.

Finally no longer occupied with staring at John’s jumper (and other parts of John), Sherlock’s mind realised that since John had moved into his bedroom, the one upstairs had become a storage cupboard slash experimentation room.

John was presumably plotting to buy Sherlock a cake and sing that soul-destroying song. Fine. Sherlock could put up with that. But he wouldn't change his views.

* * *

 

Sherlock changed his views.

He – Dear God – John. _John_. John was… perfect. Well, no, of course he wasn't; perfection was an unattainable quality, so perhaps it was better to say that John was closer to achieving perfection than any other human Sherlock had ever met. And Sherlock was well aware that his emotions were tainting his logic, ripping John-sized holes in his reasoning, but he couldn't bring himself to fix it.

Trust John to make something so mundane so very _interesting_.

On the morning of Sherlock’s birthday, he had woken up after three days of not sleeping, only to find that instead of an army doctor next to him, a small slip of paper rested upon the pillow.

“Happy Birthday! I'm trying to be unconventional so as to appease Your Highness,” Here, Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, “and therefore… well. There are clues. Do what you always do, eh?”

Scanning over the words below, Sherlock sighed. He could only hope the clues got harder than this.

“The place where I found hope.”

_> >Place – synonymous with location_

_> >Hope – (n) a feeling of expectation or a desire for something to happen_

_> >Hope – Hope, Jeffery. (Related: Moriarty, James (Jim) and John)_

Location where John met with Jeffery Hope >> University of London Campus near Baker Street. ETA: 12 mins (car)

Well, he had nothing better to do.

* * *

 

It was almost 3 p.m. by the time Sherlock returned to 221B, a smile in his mind even if his face displayed his usual glare. Whilst it hadn’t been hard, solving such simple riddles (“A place with a geographically incorrect name that you and I frequent far too much.” For Scotland Yard, really?), it had reminded him of the time when he still hadn’t had a fully developed mind, and solving these riddles was so much harder. A nice contrast and comparison to what he had become, he supposed. In any which way, the last note (Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.”) had put him in a good mood (even if John had definitely not memorised that text word for word, and had probably searched through his text history – because John was useless with technology if it wasn't medically useful), and now he was walking up the stairs to the flat.

Opening the door, Sherlock was met with the sight of two parcels on the table, accompanied by a cake of some sort (Mrs Hudson had baked it, from the sugar sprinkled on top), and John, looking at his phone. As soon as Sherlock stepped into the room, however, John looked up and smiled widely at Sherlock, standing up and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Welcome back,” he said, the endearment left out but implied. Gesturing to the three objects on the table, he said “Mrs Hudson made coffee cake. Mycroft said it was the only type you liked.” He laughed, and then asked: “We can do presents now, if you want? Or later, too.”

Sherlock looked at the wrapped items. Both were thin – possibly several pieces of paper stacked on top of each other. Paper, however, was an indefinite answer, and Sherlock was curious.

“Presents now.” He said.

John reached for the thicker of the two and pressed it into Sherlock’s hand.

“Well then, Happy Birthday! Go on, open it!”

Tearing into shimmery wrapping paper, Sherlock blinked at the file – no, several files. These were…cases? No, not just cases! Cases he hadn't seen before – cases he’d never even heard of! “Greg dropped by with them earlier – he and everyone else are giving you their presents in the evening.” Greg….? Oh.

_> >Lestrade, DI. (Otherwise known as Gregory to Mycroft; nickname ‘Greg’)_

“This is…” Sherlock trailed off, not quite sure what to say. Seeming to understand, John just smiled and handed him the other present. Unsure of what else could live up to the promise of four cold cases and the chance to show off to the Yard again, Sherlock opened the second one with more care, noting the thin card that was usually present in paperback book covers.

Oh. Oh. Sherlock’s thought process stuttered for a few seconds. That was certainly as beautiful as the prospect of cold cases, though far more sentimental.

“An Analysis of 243 Types of Tobacco Ash, by S. Holmes” was written in cursive on the front cover, and inside lay that long slogged-over post that Sherlock had deleted.

“How did you--?”

“Molly’s actually really great with computers, did you know? She helped me find a cash… cache?” Sherlock let out a little huff of laughter, turning to John with a twinkle in his eye.

“John…. Thank you.” He said sincerely, fingers gently stroking the edge of the book. John grinned sheepishly, and gently patted Sherlock on the back.

“Don’t thank me until you've had the cake, mate. It’s amazing.” And that was so like John, not making a situation too awkward with talk of feelings or friendship and hell, he was so damn _lucky_ to have met John Watson. Coughing slightly, Sherlock smiled.

“Yes. Cake.” John laughed knowingly (for all he claimed to not be able to understand the detective, he certainly knew him very well), and pushed Sherlock into a seat, raucously bursting into a chorus of ‘Haaaaappy Birthdaaay to youuuuuuuuu, Haaaaapyyy Biiiiiiiirthdaay to youuuuuuuuu…” as he cut the cake.

It was, without doubt, the best birthday ever.

 

 


End file.
